


Mixed Messages

by weirdsville



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Song fic, Stozier Secret Santa, mixtapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21961906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdsville/pseuds/weirdsville
Summary: Was making a mixtape with all the songs that reminded Richie of his crush a good idea? It sure as hell seemed like one at the time. Then again, he didn't know that he'd end up accidentally giving it straight to his crush. Like they always say, hindsight is 20/20.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 1
Kudos: 93





	Mixed Messages

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the Stozier Secret Santa on Tumblr for Nico @pyroxdroid! Hope you enjoy :)  
> The songs that appear in this fic are:  
> I’m Gonna Love You Too - Buddy Holly  
> You Didn’t Have To Be So Nice - The Lovin’ Spoonful  
> I Think I Love You - The Partridge Family  
> Fooled Around and Fell In Love - Elvin Bishop

_ Click _ .

The cassette snapped into his Walkman, whirring softly as he pressed play.

Stan laid back on his bed, waiting for the first few notes to play so he could attempt to discern the song. The cassette—fittingly labeled ‘STAN’—came without a track list, simply the explanation that it had songs Richie figured he’d enjoy. It was a Chanukah gift from his aforementioned friend, one that made his heart skip a beat. 

Sure, being given a mixtape wasn’t  _ exclusively _ a romantic gesture, but it was intimate, and Stan wasn’t going to fuss. After all, you take what you can get when you’re in love with someone who’ll never feel the same.

_ You're gonna say you've missed me _

_ You're gonna say you'll kiss me _

_ Yes, you're gonna say you'll love me _

_ 'Cause I'm a-gonna love you too... _

A smile found its way on Stan’s face as the unmistakable voice of Buddy Holly came from his headphones. It was a sweet song, which wasn’t what Stan was expecting from the tape—in all honesty, he figured Richie would treat it as a joke. 

The artist wasn’t all that surprising, though; ever since Richie got his hands on a Holly record as a kid, he’d kept in the top five favorites. Stan thought he was alright, but didn’t have a particularly strong opinion. Classic Rock ‘n Roll had never been his thing.

The song faded into another before it harshly cut away, leading into a drum beat and bells that vaguely reminded Stan of Christmas music. The thought that Richie put one in to mess with him passed through his mind, but it was quickly nullified by the vocal line.

_ You didn't have to be so nice _

_ I would have liked you anyway _

_ If you had just looked once or twice _

_ And gone upon your quiet way... _

Another love song, it seemed. This one was more surprising than the prior, since Stan didn’t recognize the artist as any he’d heard Richie listen to. Perhaps he’d just taken the songs from his parent’s collections, since the music he listened to seemed unfitting for Stan. Most of the music Richie liked was more in the punk-rock category, which Stan could appreciate from afar. 

He’d be lying if he said the fleeting thought that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , Richie was trying to get something across with his song choices didn’t cross his mind. After all, it’d been around a month since he’d casually dropped his sexual preference when all the losers were huddled in the clubhouse. It was selfish to think that Richie had meant that as a hint for him, though. 

The train of thought was thusly shut down.

Though, the slight stutter of his heart when the next song came on—

_ Whenever I'm alone with you  _

_ You make me feel like I am home again  _

_ Whenever I'm alone with you  _

_ You make me feel like I am whole again… _

_ — _ allowed it to live on.

Meanwhile, Richie was having a minor crisis.

Scratch that— _ Major Fucking Crisis _ .

What might be causing such a crisis, one might ask? Well, nothing more than accidentally giving your best friend a mixtape that had nothing but G-ddamn love songs when you meant to give him one that had completely platonic music as to not expose the fact that you’ve been in love with him for the better of three years at this point when he isn’t even gay and if he was he wouldn’t ever feel the same about you. 

That was what was causing the crisis.

Richie lifted his head off the kitchen table for just long enough to speak before dropping it back down. “Mom, I told you to grab the tape on my  _ desk _ , not the dresser!” 

“Sweetie, you can’t blame me,” his mother sighed, chopping away at a carrot as if everything was normal and her son wasn’t currently on the verge of a meltdown, “You told me to get a cassette for Stan, and it just so happened that that was the first one I saw. You should’ve labeled them better, for christsake.”

“Well, suh-orry I didn’t plan ahead for this exact frickin’ scenario,” Richie propped his head up on his crossed arms, glaring daggers into the paisley wallpaper.

“Why’d you have two cassettes for him, anyways?”

Well, that was an issue. There was no easy way to explain to your mother that not only were you a flaming homosexual, but you had spent a painstakingly long time curating and producing a mixtape of all the songs that made you think of your best friend in the most disgustingly lovey way possible.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t really anything that would be as devastating as this was for Richie that didn’t involve exposing him in some way or another.

“Uh, I mislabeled the one I gave him. I was making one for myself around the same time I was making one for him, and just, y’know, mislabeled mine. It has a bunch of music he won’t like.”

His mom seemed to think that was as shitty an excuse as Richie did. She sighed, adding the now chopped carrot to a bowl and pulling out a celery stock. “Just go tell him, Chee. Stanley won’t be upset, or whatever you’ve got yourself thinking.”

“It’s not that simple, mom.”

Richie’s mom set down the knife, turning to face him. “Yes, it is. Your music taste isn’t going to offend him somehow; he  _ won’t care _ . Go on, head over there and give him the right one.”

“But, mom-“

“Jesus Christ, Richie! Just  _ go _ !”

Richie knew arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and that wasn’t his mom’s fault. Without that key bit of information, it really seemed like he was getting upset over absolutely nothing. 

“Fine, jeeze. Can I wait for after dinner?”

“His family will be doing their Chanukah thing by then. It’s only, what, four? You can go over there now and be back before dinner’s even ready.”

Curse his mom for being reasonable. “Okay, sure.”

“I’ll see you soon, honey.”

Richie stuffed the cassette in his front pocket and grabbed his coat from where it’d been tossed by the door. “See you, mom.”

With that, Richie opened the door and began the unfortunately short walk to the Uris household.

After about forty minutes—Stan has been through another couple songs after switching the side—it was getting very difficult to not think something of it. Every single song was romantic in some way or another, and sappy at that. He’d reasoned that maybe Richie just figured Stan enjoyed love songs more than others, but to his recollection, he hadn’t done a thing to make him come to that conclusion. In fact, he rarely expressed interest in anything romantic. 

It was certainly enough to fuel that small voice in the back of his head that was incessantly reminding him that Richie very well could have meant something by the song choices, but his more reasonable—and louder—voice was shutting that one down.

Stan was laying in the same place he’d been when he started the tape, only having moved to grab a notepad and pen from his bedside table to note the songs he particularly enjoyed and their relative time. At some point, he’d either have to ask Richie for a tracklist or sit down with it and make one himself—a much longer process, but one he quite enjoyed doing.

A new song came on that caught his attention due to the slightly different feeling it had. At first, he thought it’d be somewhat of a Halloween song, or at the very least a ‘spooky’ song. But, just as the song he’d assumed to be holiday music proved to be anything but, the first few lines set him straight.

_ I was sleeping, and right in the middle of a good dream _

_ Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain _

_ Before I go insane, I hold my pillow to my head _

_ And spring up in my bed, screaming out the words I dread _

_ I think I love you... _

Christ, this was getting more and more difficult. 

A knock at his door—muffled by the music—shocked him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, Stan. Can I come in?”

“Oh, hey, Richie. Sure, go ahead,” he sat up, pulling his headphones down around his neck. Richie opened the door with a slight bit more hesitation than usual, which was odd compared to his typical manner of slamming it open and hopping onto Stan’s bed. His grin was met with one much more nervous than his—another stark deviation from the norm—that only seemed to worsen as Richie noticed the headphones.

“I’ve been listening to the mixtape you gave me,” Stan prompted, scooting over on his bed to make room for Richie to sit, “It’s-“

“I mixed up the tapes, ‘m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that one.”

“Oh.”

Richie was too preoccupied with grabbing a tape he’d been keeping in his front pocket—terrible way of treating it, Stan noted through his shock—to notice the way Stan’s face fell, and perhaps was too caught up in his own anxiety to hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Uh, here. This is the right one,” he held out the cassette to Stan, who took it gingerly. The label—also ‘STAN’, followed by ‘HAPPY HANUKKAH’ and a remedial ‘OR CHANUKAH. WHATEVER’—was much neater than the original, and had the tracklist printed and taped to the back. A quick glance at the tracks showed that it was, all in all, regular music. No love songs, or even anything vaguely romantic, if Stan’s recollection of the songs listen served him right.

“Well, thank you,” he tried to mask his disappointment, but hiding his emotions had never been his strong suit. Still, he soldiered on and took his-  _ the _ cassette out of his Walkman and handed it to Richie.

“Uh, I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized.”

“You seem upset,” said Richie, ever observant.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are,” he pestered, sitting down next to him, “Why? I mean, I figured you’d be relieved that one wasn’t for you. I mean, none of that was shit you listen to.”

“I thought it was fine,” Stan said, the understatement of the century. He wanted to grab Richie’s shoulders and scream at him that, no! It wasn’t the mix-up that upset him, for fuck’s sake! It was the fact that the only bit of hope he had that  _ maybe _ he had a chance was crushed! “Why was it labeled with my name, though?”

That question seemed to fluster Richie more than it should’ve. “Uh, just mixed ‘em up, y’know?”

“Oh, that makes sense. Who was it for?” Stan knew this line of questioning was going to do nothing to help him, but he couldn’t deny that he was curious to learn who the hell Richie would make that sappy of a mixtape for. The gesture seemed much more romantic now that he knew it wasn’t for him.

“Just me.”

“Really? You can’t be serious. That’s about as far from your music taste as you can get.”

“What, a guy can’t like a little Lovin’ Spoonful?” Richie seemed to finally take a hint from Stan’s expression and elaborated, “I just- I mean, everyone’s gotta have some lovey songs they listen to, right? Just for fun?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“You still seem upset.”

There were many things going through Stan’s head at that moment, one of which being that he could be completely honest at this point and tell Richie that he’d had feelings for him since they were kids, and that the inkling of hope he had that maybe Richie felt the same had felt incredible, and now that he knew it wasn’t true it felt like his world was ending, as overdramatic as it seemed. He settled with, “Just disappointed, I guess.”

“Disappointed? Why?”

“I liked it. The music, I mean. It was good.”

“Oh, uh- you can keep it, if you want,” Richie offered, and if Stan didn’t know any better, he’d think there was a bit of hope in his eyes.

Stan shook his head, in part to keep his composure. “No, no. It’s yours, Richie.”

“Keep it, please.”

The cassette was placed in his hand, covered by Richie’s. Stan felt his mouth go dry and his heartbeat soar, keeping his eyes locked on their hands. He didn’t trust himself to look up and meet Richie’s eyes, by G-d, but his curiosity got the better of him.

Richie looked the same as ever with his coke-bottle glasses and unruly hair, but it was his smile that seemed to make all the difference. It was slight—much more reserved than his typical wide grin—and, matched with his eyes, held something Stan couldn’t quite rationalize. 

“But, it’s yours.”

“No, Stan, I made it for you.”

Stan opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. It felt like when he was doing a presentation in his seventh grade science class following a night of no sleep and he forgot his script—words came to his mind, but none of them were quite right. Nothing was the ‘right’ thing to say, he figured, but it felt as if he needed to find the perfect thing as to not shatter the illusion.

The silence from Stan seemed to lead Richie to believe he royally fucked up, based on the way he retracted his hand and started pushing his hair back with no clear motive.

“Sorry, uh- Jesus Christ, I was reading that wrong, huh? Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-“

“No, Richie,” Stan found his voice again, leaning towards his friend—though ‘friend’ didn’t feel like a fitting term anymore, which was something he would address later—and placing his hand over Richie’s, not unlike what he had done only moments before, “You were right. Or, I think you were right. It’s funny to think we could be on completely different pages right now, but I’m just going to assume that we are.”

“Uh, yeah—how about we make sure we’re on the same page an’ shit before either of us do anything else, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“On the count of three?”

“Really?” Stan broke out of what had felt like a trance with a laugh, Richie’s dramatics never failing to bring a smile to his face, “Alright. On the count of three.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A pause, as if neither of them could quite find the bravery to speak.

And then:

“I like, have a crush on you.”

“I have feelings for you.”

Another pause.

“You do?” Richie was the first to speak, one of those smiles Stanley always felt lucky to see on his face. It was pure, unabashed adoration, and if he had to guess, it was probably exactly how he looked, too.

“I do.”

“Wow.”

Stan laughed, for no other reason than to release some of the emotions he was feeling. His laughter was soon joined by Richie’s, and soon enough he was resting his head on his shoulder and grasping their hands together.

“I- G-d, I’ve been holding on to this shit for fuckin’  _ years _ , Stanny.”

“Me, too—since, what? Beginning of freshman year?”

Richie fell back on the bed, pulling Stan down with him by their latched hands. “Are you tellin’ me I could’ve been with you for two g-ddamn years? Fuck this, holy shit!”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Neither can I. Jesus, do you know how fuckin’ freaked I was when I realized I gave you the wrong tape? I was thinkin’ that you were gonna, like, figure me the hell out and never talk to me again.”

Stan rolled himself on his side, facing Richie. “Even if I felt absolutely  _ nothing  _ for you, I still wouldn’t get that upset. You’re my best friend, Richie.”

“Fuck, don’t go getting all sappy on me, Uris,” he laughed, mimicking Stan’s motions to face him himself. 

It still made Stan’s heart beat a little faster to meet Richie’s eyes, even though he already felt as if it was going to beat out of his chest. Part of him hoped that exhilaration would never go away.

“I’m the one being sappy? Did you just forget about the whole mixtape you made not for, but about me?”

Richie shushed him, a splotchy blush on covering his pale face. Stan had to admit, that blush—and moreover, being the  _ cause _ of that blush—filled his stomach with butterflies. Everything about Richie did, he realized. All the small things that Stan typically wouldn’t bat an eyelash at felt different when they were done by Richie. 

“I never thought you’d listen to it,” he admitted, looking about as sheepish as the Trashmouth could, before regaining his signature mischievous grin, “It was mainly for my two A.M. fantasies about spending my adult years as a Jewish housewife to my best friend.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan said through a closed fist, stifiling the laughter threatening to come up.

The two laid there for a moment after catching each other’s eyes, content to do nothing more than bask in the success of their mutual confessions.

“I think it’s sweet,” Stan broke the silence, taking Richie’s hand in his.

“Aw, you’re just as much of a sap as I am.”

Stan rolled his eyes, bringing their clasped hands to his chest. “At least you admit it.”

Another silence came over them, just as comfortable as the prior. It felt as if just as much could be communicated without words as it could with, which was perhaps a product of being friends for so long.

“How far’d you get?” Richie was the one to break the silence this time.

After a moment pondering, Stan replied, “That one song—it went like, uh, ‘I was sleeping, and in the middle of a good dream’-“

“I Think I Love You.”

“I think I love you, too.”

A pause.

“Oh, that’s not what you meant.” 

“No, but, holy fuck, it is now.”

Stan found himself overcome with laughter for the umpteenth time that evening, albeit a bit softer— _ giddier _ —than the more boisterous laughter from before. It wasn’t long before Richie joined him.

“You wanna keep listening?” Richie allowed them both to settle down before speaking again. “There’re a lot of good songs left.”

Stan nodded, releasing their hands and pushing himself upright. “Here, let me grab my radio.”

After a bit of rearranging, the clunky radio was set on his bedside table. Stanley fiddled a moment with the placement, trying his best to make it fit alongside the lamp, before taking the cassette that had been lying between them and pressing it into its rightful place in the front of the radio. 

“Wait,” he said, hesitating over the play button, “I’m going to close the door.”

“Woah, already? I mean, I’m not against it, but-“

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan did as he said he would before returning to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, “I just don’t want my parents to complain about the music.”

Shooting him a lopsided grin, Richie pulled his legs up on the bed—he’d discarded his shoes at the door, as Stan always instructed him to do—and scooted back against the headboard, patting the space beside him.

“One second,” Stan pressed play on the radio and adjusted the volume before taking the invitation, meeting Richie’s eyes as he did. The fluttery feeling was even present, as was this dream-like element to it all, as if this wasn’t really happening. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Neither can I,” he joined their hands again, leaning his head on Stan’s shoulders, “I mean, me, Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, with Stan ‘the Man’ Uris? Seems unlikely.”

“Not as unlikely as you’d think, I suppose.” 

Richie hummed in agreement, tapping along to the song—the same one Stan had been listening to before all this—on his hand. 

They sat like that for a moment, allowing the music to wash over them. Stan could focus on little more than Richie’s hand in his and head on his shoulder, the way it felt to match their breathing, and-  _ G-d _ , just everything about this. If he had to guess, he’d say Richie was thinking about the same things.

The song faded out, leading into a slower one than any of the songs prior, if he recalled correctly. Stan vaguely recognized it from something—a movie, perhaps?—but not well enough to place it.

_ I must have been through about a million girls _

_ I'd love 'em then I'd leave 'em alone _

_ I didn't care how much they cried, no sir _

_ Their tears left me cold as a stone... _

“Y’know, I’ve always wanted to dance with you to this song.”

“Really?” Stan turned his head to face Richie, a fond smile on his face mirroring the one found on the other’s.

“Mhm.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“Really?” Richie mimicked, his smile widening.

“Yes, you dork,” Stan got off his bed, tugging gently at Richie’s hand to bring him up with him, “Do you lead or follow?”

“Is that an innuendo?”

Stan rolled his eyes, taking hold of Richie’s other hand after he got himself stable. “No, Richie, it isn’t. It’s where you hold your frame.”

“I’m whatever you aren’t, then.”

“I’ll lead,” he said, adjusting their position so that his right hand was cupping Richie’s shoulder blade and his left was holding Richie’s close to them, “Put your right hand on my upper arm.”

Richie did as he was told, bringing them into a fairly solid frame. “Where’d you learn all this, anyway?”

“My parents made me take a ballroom class over the summer. I didn’t tell any of you guys ‘cause I knew you’d make fun of me,” Stan nudged Richie a bit closer with his right hand, bringing them close to being chest-to-chest. 

Richie snorted, though it was softer than his typical laughter. Everything seemed a bit muffled in the moment, as if they were experiencing everything from underwater, but it was an incredible feeling. “Yeah, we would’ve.”

“Put your head on my shoulder,” he spoke quieter than he typically would, partially due to their proximity and that muffled feeling from before. Richie did just so, and Stan figured they were in a good enough position to begin.

Despite his treating it as such, they weren’t doing any complicated ballroom dance—rather, he led Richie in a simple two-step, a rocking from foot to foot. It felt more intimate than any other dance he’d done before, perhaps because it was with someone he loved who loved him. 

They stayed like that for most of the song, rocking back and forth with each other, content to do nothing more than hold the other close. It was at about the third chorus that Richie spoke up, a gentle murmur against Stan’s ear.

“Can I kiss you?”

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear himself say yes, but he knew he had as Richie’s hand moved from his bicep to his jaw, tilting Stan’s head up the slightest bit so they would be level. They stood like that a moment, looking into each other’s eyes, before Richie shut his and leaned in slowly. With a stuttered breath, Stan shut his own, closing the small distance between them.

There was nothing all that special about the kiss, he found. To his knowledge, neither of them had been kissed before, so it certainly wasn’t  _ good _ from an objective standpoint. No, the two didn’t know quite what to do with their hands, besides hold the other in some way or another, and Richie’s glasses prevented them from moving very much.

Nonetheless, it was the most amazing thing Stan had ever experienced. 

They pulled away after a moment—mostly because it was getting a bit too awkward to justify continuing—and stood still, a giddy smile on both of their faces. 

It was again Richie who broke the silence, though ‘broke’ didn’t seem like the right word; it was more a diffusion through the cracks, the gentle stillness still overall intact.

“I love you, Stan.”

Loving had never come easy to Stan. He was deeply grounded in logic, and emotions were  _ anything _ but logical. They scared him, if he were to be honest with himself. The concept of making yourself absolutely vulnerable, exposing your weak spots—it terrified him. 

But, in that moment, nothing felt safer than those words.

“I love you, too.”

  
  
  



End file.
